


Sunset Delight

by draculard



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Dad Bod Picard, Day At The Beach, Day drinking, Humor, International Fanworks Day 2021, Kindred Spirits, M/M, Pellaeon's a cockblock, Shore Leave, Swimming, Thrawn's a himbo scamming to get free drinks on the beach, Tight Imperial-Issue Swim Shorts, Unresolved Sexual Tension, command styles - leadership - art and culture, morals? ehhh not so much, they have so much in common
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: A chance meeting while the Enterprise is in dry-dock acquaints Picard with a certain Grand Admiral he'ddefinitelylike to get to know better.
Relationships: Jean-Luc Picard/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Sunset Delight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterbrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterbrain/gifts).



> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

There was an egregiously large ship docked at the orbital station for repairs, and Picard would have written it off as just another alien warship if it weren’t for the unusual hull painting visible on the underside. He shielded his eyes and squinted up at it from his location at an out-of-the-way beach, trying to determine what the hull painting represented. He’d never seen a warship with such a beautifully-decorated hull before.

“May I join you?” said a calm, modulated voice behind him.

Picard turned, sun-kissed water lapping at his bare chest, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. At the edge of the rocky beach stood a tall and handsome humanoid, wearing nothing but skin-tight black swimming shorts. He must have been swimming already, at one of the beaches or hot springs along the way; water gleamed off his blue skin and dampened his dark hair, which he’d pushed back from his forehead. He had the lithe, coiled grace and muscular figure of an athlete — or a dancer.

“Yes,” said Picard finally, drawing back from the edge a little in invitation. “Please, come in.” 

The non-human slipped into the water so gracefully there was scarcely a ripple; he let the water go over his head and resurfaced so close to Picard that it _should_ have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn’t, brushing his hair back and palming water from his glowing red eyes.

Those eyes shifted down Picard’s body, taking him in without pretense. Picard straightened up, not quite as trim as the stranger but proud of his body nonetheless, unwilling to shrink away. He watched the alien’s eyes track down the trail of dark hair over Picard’s stomach and disappearing into his swim briefs.

There was a hint of approval on the alien’s face. With a wolfish grin, Picard offered his hand.

“Captain Jean-Luc Picard,” he said, then released the alien’s hand and pointed northward, where his ship was just barely visible in the docking bay. “The Enterprise.”

“Grand Admiral Thrawn of the Chimaera,” said the alien smoothly, and before he lifted a long-fingered hand and pointed his ship out, Picard knew it would be the massive wedge-shaped ship he’d noticed earlier. 

“A warship,” he noted, following the admiral’s gesture. His tone was neutral.

“Yes,” said Thrawn. He turned his head, examining what he could see of the Enterprise, as if his people’s war was of little consequence to him. “And yours … a scientific vessel?”

Was there a note of approval in his voice, or was Picard imagining it?

“Indeed,” he said. “You’ve heard of Starfleet, of course?”

Thrawn gave an ambivalent little nod. 

“Well, we’ve overstepped a little,” Picard admitted. “A warp drive miscalculation brought us quite a bit farther than we intended to go. But we’re making our way back, slowly but surely, and I've got friends on the planet, so it's not an uncomfortable stay.”

Thrawn offered no further information on his own ship or his objectives, and Picard found he really didn’t mind. They waded farther from the beach together, away from the shade and into the sun, where Thrawn surveyed the same beautiful countryside Picard had found himself admiring a moment before.

“Your ship…” Picard started, searching for the right way to say it. “That painting on the hull, that is…”

Thrawn turned to him, eyes glittering. “Ah,” he said with the faintest smile. “It was not the size or the unusual design of the ship that caught your attention, then.”

“Well,” said Picard, unable to help a smile of his own, “in truth, I’ve seen large ships before.”

It was a risky thing to say, especially when dealing with an alien of unknown origins and culture, but somehow Picard knew Thrawn wouldn’t be offended — and he was right. If anything, he seemed more pleased.

“I, too, appreciate art,” Thrawn said. His eyes swept down over Picard’s form, subtly but clearly indicating that his appreciation included the human form. Here, in the sunlight, Picard could see glints of silver in Thrawn’s hair and felt his pulse quicken in response; suddenly, he felt far less self-conscious about the thin layer of fat over his abs, felt as if he were standing before a kindred spirit — a living being — instead of a Greek god painted blue.

“Would you care for a drink?” he asked.

* * *

It was sunset before they stopped talking, Picard’s voice pleasantly hoarse. Thrawn was more of a listener than a talker — at least, on subjects of archaeology and music, he stayed mostly quiet, speaking only occasionally to offer surprising insights and in-depth analysis — but when the conversation swung back around to art, it seemed he could speak for hours in that soft, calm voice of his. And maybe it was the wine talking, but Picard could _listen_ for hours.

They turned to watch the sunset together, swiveling on their barstools. Thrawn had pulled a shirt on but hadn't bothered to button it, and he held his cocktail glass in his hand, eyes hooded and soft, cheeks flushed from drink. The bar was open-air, letting them smell the salt of the ocean and feel the cooling breeze on their skin as the sun went down. 

They had so much in common it was uncanny, Picard thought. He’d never met another man whose leadership skills he admired so much; they’d swapped stories as they drank, and while he knew Thrawn was ever careful not to betray Imperial secrets, Picard had nevertheless attained a sense of the other man as a leader — and he liked what he saw. Thrawn’s gentle guidance must make for a fine navy, he thought with a pang of something almost like jealousy; he only wished more of Starfleet’s admirals were the same. And his value for life, the way he always strove to minimize casualties even with facing off with the most nefarious pirates and terrorist cells, was perhaps the most admirable thing about him.

And then there was art — Picard felt like his eyes had been pried open by the other man, especially in the realm of analysis. And there was music — Thrawn had listened so raptly, not bothering to hide his somber fascination, while Picard spoke to him about the instruments of Earth, in particular the flute. And there was culture — Thrawn had submitted easily to Picard’s recommendations on local wine, but his comments revealed a deep understanding and appreciation of the subject himself, even if (the one area in which they differed) he admitted to drinking more ale when on his own. They’d compromised after the third drink, switching to a strong cocktail aptly named Sunset Delight.

When the sun was nothing more than a golden glow on the horizon, they turned back to each other, Thrawn’s hand brushing Picard’s. 

“Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think,” Picard said, hoping the quote would not go over Thrawn’s head. The other man raised an eyebrow and took another sip of Sunset Delight, his tongue flashing out to catch a drop on the rim of the glass. 

“Indeed,” Thrawn said, his voice low and approving. “It is rare to meet a commanding officer who shares one’s ideals. Rarer still to meet a friend.”

A warm flush suffused Picard’s body. His fingers brushed Thrawn’s again as he set his cocktail glass down. “Well said,” he said. “And to meet someone in our profession — the military, that is — who understands the value of life, who understands one can’t commit a wantonly immoral act for the sake of a higher purpose—”

Thrawn’s expression seemed to freeze. 

“Thrawn?” said Picard, concern spiking in him. “Are you alright?”

“Pardon me,” said Thrawn at once, looking down into his drink. “You were saying, ‘wantonly immoral acts’?”

“Well, yes,” said Picard, hitting his stride again. “Even in Starfleet, it’s abysmally common for people to take action based on the concept of ‘greater good.’ Can you believe that?”

Thrawn buried his nose in his drink and looked away.

“I once knew a man — not in Starfleet, mind, but it’s a good example — who killed one of his own men over a simple error,” said Picard with a shake of the head.

“Ah,” said Thrawn.

“A simple error!” Picard repeated. He opened his mouth to continue but was interrupted from a chirp of a comlink. Thrawn fished it out of his shirt pocket and thumbed it on.

“Thrawn,” he said.

“Captain Pellaeon here,” said a voice from the comlink. “The conscript you had punished over the tractor beam error, sir — Cris Pieterson — has been disposed of and his family notified. Rukh delivered the boy’s head to his mother himself. Ready to leave whenever you are.”

Picard stared at the comlink uncomprehendingly, his mouth hanging open. "Did he say the Pieterson boy?" he asked, voice faint with horror. "You beheaded the Pieterson boy? I'm _friends_ with the Pietersons."

Looking suddenly awkward, Thrawn raised his hand and called the bartender over. 

“I think I’ll pay for my own drink,” he said.


End file.
